


Playing the Fool

by cakeisnotpie



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Minor Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, STEBE!, Suicidal Thoughts, all the feels, sniperbros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 09:09:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1463734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s tired of it all. The thoughts, the feelings, the flotsam and jetsam that wash up in his dreams and are now invading his waking brain. His programming has a glitch, some sort of virus with a name and a face and, damn it all to hell, the mission is his only thing he knows, fucked up mental state and all. What is happening to him? That’s the scary part, this gaping unknown with too many questions and dark spots where monsters like him can lay in wait for just the right moment to take him down in a bloody hail of bullets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing the Fool

**Author's Note:**

> For Katya, who wanted stubborn, rude Bucky feels. And some sniperbros, Clint & Bucky. and Stebe.

He’s tired of it all. The thoughts, the feelings, the flotsam and jetsam that wash up in his dreams and are now invading his waking brain. His programming has a glitch, some sort of virus with a name and a face and, damn it all to hell, the mission is his only thing he knows, fucked up mental state and all. What is happening to him? That’s the scary part, this gaping unknown with too many questions and dark spots where monsters like him can lay in wait for just the right moment to take him down in a bloody hail of bullets. Too many times lately he’s thought of ending it, just shut off the flow of data, wipe the hard drive, and crash the system. But even that’s no guarantee; he’s died before only to wake once more with a new objective, another target in his gun sights.

So he does the next best thing; he gets sloppy, at least as much as is possible when he’s not completely in control of his own body. Not so much that those bastards who own him notice, but enough that someone good enough has an opening to take him down. He’s glad that it’s another sniper, maybe the best one out there, ancient stick and string aside, the one who’s as mouthy as he used to be and can make the shot even as he’s spinning out of the way and taking down three more targets as he goes. The aluminum shaft vibrates upon impact, small red light blinking as he looks down and realizes that he’s still alive in the two heartbeats before the gas is released and he inhales the fine white mist that drops him down the rabbit hole into a troubled sea of images. White masks looking down on him, little round glasses, needles and scalpels and bright lights. Crosshairs painted on men and women, finger squeezing slowly, breath exhaling, bullet speeds right at the blue eyes and blonde hair staring back at him. Shots of vodka and whiskey, music changing like skipping a record from track to track. Stick ball in the street, baseball at the stadium, catch in the mud of the trenches. Dead and dying, soldier and civilians, doctors and nurses, a red haired woman and a blonde haired man. Always the silver star in the center, a perfect bulls eye.

He wakes in a room, flesh and blood hand constrained with an iron manacle, cold and dead one with a slim bracelet lined with led readouts and flashing lights. The man across the table is the sniper – the flinty stare that never moves is a dead giveaway – and he leans back in his chair, all casual in the way that only assassins can be, and watches. They stay that way for over an hour, neither speaking nor reacting, before the door opens and a suit comes in, lays down a folder full of paper, and leaves – and he knows the suit is just as dangerous as the sniper by the economy of motion and the perfect awareness of every detail in the room in just a few glances the suit took. The two never even looked at each other, but he knows they’re fucking, the right kind of sex where business comes first and getting off comes second. The only kind he believes in.

“Some people want to talk to you,” the sniper says, out of the blue, chair balanced on one back leg, feet hanging in the air.

“Is this where you offer to be my friend? And all I have to do is answer a couple questions?” He leaned back, depositing his boots on the table, knocking some dirt off as he crossed his ankles. This song and dance was familiar so he changed the tune.

“Nah, just saying.” The sniper shrugged. “I know a little about Russian stubbornness.”

 “So, does he keep his suit on when he gives it to you in the ass? Seems like a keep his clothes on kind of guy.” He pushed, to see how far he could go before this guy’s cockiness gave way to anger. Something he was good at, taking people apart; after all he was just pieces of a man himself with nothing left to lose. Everyone else had some illusion they wanted to keep and he could use that against them.

“What makes you think I’m a bottom?” Not even a blink, the sniper grinned and spun his chair in a lazy circle, tilting his head back to maintain eye contact. “I’m more of a hold him down and fuck him hard kind of guy. And I like the suit on. Does it for me, you know?”

He barked a sharp laugh at that, so unused to humor that he couldn’t stop the sound from bursting out. There had been a time when he was frozen completely, unable to even feel much less respond, and he liked it that way. These feelings that were breaking through weren’t on the approved agenda by his handlers, the scientists who wiped and reprogrammed him on a daily basis.

“You, on the other hand, strike me as a leave-it-to-the-hand solo act, am I right?” Blue grey eyes met his and he thought he saw a dark shadow pass through their depths, but that was part of the game, wasn’t it? Get him to think someone else understood, cared, and then take him down. Silence was his answer to that, his impassive stare giving nothing away. The sniper shifted forward, leaned his elbows on the table and let another few minutes go by.

The suit opened the door and stepped inside, his eyebrow cocked and loaded like a gun aimed right at the sniper who actually managed to blush and look vaguely uncomfortable before he pushed back and stood up, leaving the file laying on the surface. Time to tag team, send in the bad cop who’d beat the information out of him. He wished they’d hurry this along, throw him in his cell and let him rot. A stab of longing knifed through him, to have someone like that guy to laugh with and compare notes on rifles and drink a beer after a bad op went sour.

Pausing, the sniper looked back at him. “Seriously, though, the whole mindfuck thing? Yeah, I actually do understand it. Been there, done that. Not much difference between HYDRA scientists and crazy-assed alien want-to-be godlings. Going to be a hard road ahead of you, so one piece of advice. Just nod at the therapists and feed them your best line of bullshit; they have no fucking clue. Talk to people who know, okay?”

Then he was alone again with nothing but his own thoughts which skittered away from him back into the dark recesses when he tried to pin them down. Anger at himself for the half-a-moment when he believed the guy. The headlong rush to get this over with clashing with the dead space where nothing mattered. And over all, the programming imperative to meet his objective by any means necessary. He could sit like this forever, unmoving, staring straight ahead into the two-way mirror, looking deep enough to make out the hazy outlines of figures on the other side, more people watching and waiting and judging, deciding his fate. Just like always.

The door opened and a woman walked it. Elegant, graceful, and deadly, she balanced on the corner of the table, crossed one ankle over the other and leaned back, red curls spilling over her shoulder. There was something familiar about her, the way she moved, like a cross between a ballet dancer and a martial artist, and the careful mask in place on her beautiful face, controlled and tight with no hints of anything but what she wanted him to see. She slid the file over and flipped it open; he didn’t glance down, instinctively understanding that she was the biggest threat in the room and needed his undivided attention.

“It’s been, what, nine weeks since you were last in cyrofreeze?” She turned a page, ignoring him in favor of the information she was seeking. “You’re probably feeling the breakdown of the personality suppression the worst, but I’d imagine the neural connection between your robotic arm and your brain is failing as well.  Department X never did figure out how to make the programming stable long-term, thus the need to keep their operatives on ice when not in use.”

They knew. He resisted the urge to flex his fingers, make sure they were functioning, but that would be confirming her suspicions. Tilting his head, he eyed her without saying a word.

“Here’s the truth, Левша.” She spun the file around and a picture caught his attention; he couldn’t help but see the old WWII photo of two men, sepia toned and faded. Panels articulated up his arm as it reached out of its own accord and caught the picture gently in his fingers. “Withdrawal from the drugs is going to be hell. HYDRA doesn’t care about long term side effects, just kill totals. But it can be done. Stark’s already working on a new arm and we’ve got experience with their brand of mind control. Going to take a while, but you can survive and come out the other side.”

It was obvious in the way she spoke, the perfect Russian vowels that spilled from her red lips. He should have seen it in the way she walked, the movements that spoke of Soviet training. “Врешь и не краснеешь,” he returned, watching her reaction. “I guess death by cop isn’t as easy as it used to be.”

Arching an eyebrow, the first show of any emotion, the woman looked surprised, but he’d bet even that was calculated. “If you wanted to die, Чудак человек, you came to the wrong place. SHIELD has a habit of recruiting from the opposing team, haven’t you heard?”

 “I had thought that there was courage enough to fight me, not talk me to death. Obviously, I was mistaken.” His first thought was that they wanted to recruit him? That was sheer absurdity. Then the words sank in and he was assailed by a memory – a snowy day, a flash of red, a young girl’s smile -- gone all too quickly into the cracks of his brain.

“Here’s what I think,” The woman turned towards him and leaned in. “A part of you wanted us to find you, knew we’d take you in, give you a chance. The part of you that is remembering who you were.”

Lies. Carefully crafted to say what he wanted to hear, to offer him another alternative than death. He knew what she was, where she’d learned to manipulate words like that. “As if I would trust a graduate of the Red Room.”

“Believe what you like Иван-дурак. Or continue to be their fool. I care not.” With a shrug, she stood. “But ask yourself why you are here. Why you keep coming back.”

She was playing with his head, suggesting that he was an Ivan, so easily controlled, casting herself in the role of Vasilisa the Wise. But he wasn’t buying what she was selling; he’d heard of the women from the Red Room, had worked with some of them. They were ruthless assassins, bred in blood and pain to do their master’s bidding – just like him. He could believe nothing she said; he’d never been here before, had no memory of this place, these people, the two men in the photo on the table in front of him, smiling at each other. Pain he knew. Death and killing and a vast emptiness. But friendship? Love? Family? Winter in his soul left no room for anything else.

How long he sat, floating between cold and bursts of memory, fighting an inner battle, he didn’t know. He could hear the echo of music, the retort of bullets, the whisper of a woman, the laughter of those gone.

_I thought you were dead_ , the voice said, the one that haunted his dreams.

“Bucky?” Standing in the doorway, tall and imposing, blue eyes filled with compassion, the soldier looked at him.

And his world tilted on its axis, spinning drunkenly until it shattered.

“I thought you were smaller,” Bucky said.

 


End file.
